Love Bade Me Welcome

by Joan Smith

  He put his hand on my elbow and guided me to the saloon. As we passed that spot where he had been standing, I noticed that the gilt frame that formerly occupied his attention held a mirror.

  “Davinia, I see you have met Cousin Bulow,” Jarvis said, rising to his feet when I entered. It occurred to me to ask him not to bother with this formality, but a second thought deterred me. He was not so old as to appreciate being excluded from the circle of gallants.

  Homer also rose and bowed, with no ostentation. I saw Miss Dennison sitting in a corner, crocheting. She wore a hideous puce gown, and had daubed rouge on her withered cheeks in two large circles. This addition to her toilette, I soon surmised, was in Bulow’s honor.

  He went forward and made a good-natured fuss over her, calling her his “girlfriend,” and admiring her gown, her high color, her crocheting work. This done, he came and sat in the semicircle around the grate with the rest of us. He had forgotten my wine, but meanwhile Jarvis procured me a glass. The talk soon revealed that Bulow had been to London recently. The visit made up our main conversation before dinner. My suspicions regarding his nature were confirmed. He spoke of trivial matters, mostly artistic and social.

  “I tried the new Bridge House Hotel, just by London Bridge Station. Very fine, but the service doesn’t match the better places. I shan’t stay there again. Too much traffic. They pulled down half a dozen old buildings to make room for the hotel, but it will never be socially acceptable to the ton,” he decreed.

  “I expect things were dull, with the Court in mourning,” Jarvis mentioned. “Parties would all be abandoned.”

  “There were no large balls, certainly,” Bulow said. “Not that I would have attended in any case, so close to Norman’s death.”

  Soon it came out that he had found quieter amusements. “I dropped around to the Crystal Palace. I hadn’t seen it since it was removed from Hyde Park to Sydenham. Penge has been ruined completely. It used to be a nice, quiet, rural sort of place. Now it’s little houses cheek-by-jowl, with traffic so heavy you can scarcely get across the street.”

  “The Crystal Palace was too magnificent a thing to destroy,” Jarvis said.

  “As to that, if you call ten thousand tons of iron and twenty-five acres of glass beautiful, then it is beautiful,” Bulow said. “I doubt the fellow who bought it will ever make a penny. It costs sixty thousand a year to keep up, and at that the glass is covered in dust half the time.”

  “Wouldn’t I love to get hold of it,” Millie Dennison said, her eyes flashing. “What herbs I would have room to grow, under all those acres of glass. Do they have herbs in the plant collection, Bulow?”

  “Very likely. I shall take you with me next time, Millie, and you can explain to me what we are looking at. You will enjoy to see the new fashions, too. I saw a female in bloomers, I swear. I thought we had heard the last of Mrs. Bloomer and her ridiculous outfits.”

  “No, you won’t take me,” Millie said, undeceived. “You never take me. No one ever takes me anywhere. I should like to see these bloomers you speak of. They sound practical.”

  “Practical, for a woman?” Bulow asked, staring.

  “If God had wanted us to wear bloomers, he would have given us two legs, Miss Dennison,” I told her, with a jeering look at Bulow.

  She found no amusement in this view. “I shall make myself up a pair. They sound practical—just the contraption for my gardening,” she declared.

  “Did you get your business settled up satisfactorily?” Jarvis asked in a discreetly vague way, giving no idea what the business was.

  “Yes, it was no problem,” Bulow told him with equal discretion.

  The older gentleman tried to engage Bulow in some more serious discussion but had no success. He and Homer talked about the cotton famine, caused by the Civil War in America. Had Cousin Bulow noticed much distress due to the two million thrown out of work? “Yes, there were a deuced lot of beggars in the streets, and crime was up too, but old Gladstone and Cobden would get them back to work with the new free trade policy with France.”

  We went in to dinner, where I found myself seated between Homer and Bulow, giving me an opportunity to compare them. They were two extremes of types. Homer was so firmly rooted to the earth, he spoke of little but crops and farm animals. Bulow soared high above the ground, hardly aware that such mundane things as corn and cows existed, though he was a farmer too. Chopin and Liszt were spoken of in terms of high praise. He ventured also into the realms of art and literature, soon discovering it was only in the latter that I had much knowledge, and even there my taste was for native novels—Dickens and Trollope and Austen, while he lauded the French writers.

  Millie and I retired from the table after dinner to leave the men to their port. I expected she would dart off to her laboratory, but she sat with me, explaining that she didn’t want to hurt Bulow’s feelings by leaving early.

  “Jarvis showed me your herb garden this morning,” I said, to pass the time.

  “He knows nothing about it. I shall show you, when the time is right. Things are hardly sprouting yet.”

  “When am I to see your laboratory?” I asked, wondering if she even had one.

  “There’s nothing stopping you,” she answered bluntly. “I have been ready and waiting ever since you got here. It’s always the same: I am the one left last to have a private visit with company. But Homer says you are not company, you’re family, so my turn is bound to come.”

  “It will be difficult tonight.”

  “I can’t invite you tonight. I want to listen to Bulow. He’s such a dashing scoundrel I want to sit and watch and listen to him. He don’t come near often enough to suit me. I think we’ll be seeing more of him now,” she added, with a shake of her head in my direction.

  “He is lively,” I agreed, ignoring the hint that I was the temptress who would draw him hither.

  “Lively? He’s a handsome lad, and don’t bother pretending you ain’t mad for him, for you are. I saw you looking at him out of the corner of your eyes, at the table. Ho! You’ll give Eglantine a dash for her money. He’s got an eye for you as well. I heard him. ‘Aphrodite!’ Ha! It’s a butterfly, you know—brown and black, and not at all pretty. It will be fun to see which of you gets him. My money is on Eglantine. She’s richer.”

  “My husband has only been dead two months, Millie. Pray don’t be assigning beaux to me just yet.”

  “Two months is long enough to mourn,” she advised me. “Norman is rotting in his grave. Do you think he’s thinking of you! Devil a bit of it. He’s either sizzling in hell or floating on a cloud, chasing after some beauty who made it to heaven, if any beautiful women did get there, which I doubt. You can come to my laboratory tomorrow, if you want.”

  “I’d like that. Right after breakfast, if that’s all right.”

  “I get up at six. You can’t sleep when you’re old. You’ll find me there all morning. Do you know what I am going to do, Davinia?”

  “No, what?”

  “I am going to make myself a pair of bloomers. I have taken my decision. I have a pattern somewhere in my room, amidst the junk. I remember I thought at the time it was in the magazine it was a clever device. I was sure they would catch on, but the crinolines are too attractive. They are engines to snare men, and you pretty things won’t give them up in a hurry. Do you lace?” she asked, glancing at my waist. Her conversation darted about like an ant at a picnic.

  “Yes, but not tightly. Everyone does.”

  “It destroys the intestines. It traps the food, and it also kills babies. Before they are born, I mean. It strangles them inside of women. If you are ever pregnant, don’t lace.”

  “I’ll bear that in mind.”

  “Yes, but you won’t do it. You’ll see all the other women with tiny waists, and you’ll lace yourself into an hourglass to compete with them. They all do it. It ought to be abolished, outlawed. When I was young, the empress gown was the vogue. It was excellent for pregnant women. They should bring it
back into fashion. Actually, I wasn’t all that young, but I wore them,” she clarified, after a frowning pause.

  “They are comfortable. I have a nightdress in that style.”

  “Did you know Jarvis has a woman?” was her next speech.

  “No, I didn’t know it.”

  “He’s sixty-seven years old, and he has a mistress thirty-nine. He’ll never marry her. She wouldn’t suit us here at Wyngate. She is nothing more than a convenience. I expect Homer has got one too, if the truth were known.”

  “Possibly,” I said, looking away, but listening for all that.

  “He trots over to his old place twice a week, to Farnley Mote. That seems excessive to me. And he comes home very late, if he doesn’t stay the whole night. I mean to ask him, next time I see him alone.”

  “I don’t suppose he’ll tell you.”

  “I always know when Homer is lying. He is a perfectly wretched liar. He daren’t look me in the eye when he lies. Bulow, now, he is a trained liar. He can fool me. Ah, here he is now, the rascal. Bulow, Bulow I say! Come here and sit beside me. We were just talking about you.”

  “I felt my ears burning, and wondered why,” he said, coming forward with long, smooth strides. He spoke to Millie, but he looked at me, wearing an expression of tolerant amusement. I knew without quite knowing how I knew that he thought I had been quizzing her about him, and I also knew that this pleased him. He sat beside Millie on a loveseat, and threw her into maidenish giggles by putting an arm around her shoulders.

  “How is my girl?” he teased.

  “I’m old enough to be treated with respect, Master Jackdaw,” she scolded, but had difficulty restraining her pleasure.

  “And pretty enough to be teased. You don’t fool me with tales of having been Noah’s flirt. The men still have an eye for you, you hoyden.”

  “You’re wicked! Didn’t I tell you he was a wicked flirt, Davinia?” she asked, turning to me.

  “So that is what you were saying about me, and I not here to defend myself but forced to sit listening while Jarvis refought the Crimean War. It was only the excellent wine that made it tolerable. And of course the anticipation of this pleasant chat we are having now,” he added, passing a smile along to each of us.

  Homer and Jarvis remained on the other side of the room. I felt it more polite that we all sit together, and suggested it.

  “We can listen to those two grouch about money anytime,” Millie objected.

  “Lady Blythe doesn’t care for our frivolity, Millie,” Cousin Bulow told her. “Shall we retire to your lair and discuss horticulture instead? I brought you the seeds you requested from London. Also a slim volume, which I have in my inside pocket. There aren’t many ladies in the country who could cause me to destroy the set of my jackets, you know.”

  “Maybe Davinia would like to come with us,” she suggested, but soon thought better of the idea. “No, she is coming to me tomorrow. I have to spread out my treats. Nobody ever visits me. I might as well be dead. I soon will be.”

  “You’ll live forever, you witch,” Bulow said, laughing, and going along with her.

  As I watched them leave, his arm still around her, I felt more kindly disposed towards him. His interests were not in stride with my own, but at heart he was a well-intentioned man. I softened to him, and soon found even his interests acceptable. There was nothing wrong in liking culture, nor with a handsome young bachelor being keen on fashion. He would settle down to more serious matters when he married.

  “How did you hit it off with Cousin Bulow?” Jarvis asked, regarding me from beneath his white brows. He looked like a gnome, with the lamp reflecting from his bald dome.

  “He is lively, an entertaining guest,” I answered carefully.

  “He is a great favorite with the ladies. I like him too. I used to be one of his mama’s beaux, so I keep a fatherly eye on him to see he doesn’t run astray.”

  Homer sat listening, but contributing nothing. He looked not so much disapproving as disinterested in the cousin. As I was with them, they did not discuss farming, but London. I was a little familiar with it after my visit there with Norman. Jarvis knew it intimately, and its famous inhabitants, too. Knowing my fondness for the Queen, he regaled me with some intimate glimpses into her life.

  When Bulow returned, he had to leave very soon. It was not late, but he mentioned visiting the Croffts. “You must all come over to the Barrows for dinner soon,” he added. “Mama looks forward to meeting Davinia. She goes about very little,” he explained, just when I was wondering why she had not come with him this evening. “The rheumatism plagues her. She sends her kindest regards.”

  “I look forward to meeting her,” I answered.

  “We’ll drop in one of these days,” Homer told him, “when time and weather permit.”

  “I shan’t wait that long, Homer. Time never permits you to pay a purely social call. If I don’t see you before Sunday, I shall be back myself,” he warned, with a warm smile to me.

  “Why don’t you bring Miss Crofft along?” Homer asked. There was some undercurrent of malice in his voice, or perhaps mischief is all I mean.

  “I’ll tell her you are eager for her company, Homer,” Bulow replied, with a playful lift of his brow. “She won’t be sorry to hear it, if I know anything. And it will give me an opportunity to get Davinia to myself too. You have the advantage of me, keeping her under your roof. Good night, all.”

  With an exaggerated sweep of a bow, he was gone. Jarvis shook his head and smiled. “You’re no match for him, Homer. His wits are greased lightning. And you, of course, are only thunder.”

  “Sound and fury, signifying nothing,” Homer added.

  “That was not said of thunder, but of life,” Jarvis objected.

  “Pardon me, I haven’t much time to read the Bible these days,” Homer said, becoming irritable.

  “Shakespeare, not the Bible,” Jarvis persisted, enjoying his discomfort. His smile invited me to join in the roasting.

  “Shall we have a glass of wine?” Homer inserted rather quickly.

  We finished it without further literary references. As soon as it was done, I left the men and went to bed. Thal had sent her latest novel along to my room. I read for half an hour, which was long enough to make my eyelids heavy.

  I refused to ponder on the night’s party. It would only vex me to dwell on the hints dropped on all sides that I was interested in Cousin Bulow, that he was throwing his hanky at me, that Eglantine Crofft was interested in Homer, that intriguing hint that she would welcome his advances. I was not ready for such a surfeit of romantical tangles. Let them sort it out amongst themselves. I was a widow, and meant to stick to my weeds for many a long month yet.

  Chapter 6

  When I awoke the next morning, I felt decidedly unwell, as though something I had eaten the night before had disagreed with me. The shellfish cropped immediately to mind. It was unfortunate that the food I most liked should have this ill effect upon me, but it was not the first time lobster had bothered me. I hardly had the energy to get out of bed. I was in the limbo of being too sick to get up and not sick enough to remain abed without being bored. So after twenty minutes lingering I pulled myself up and got dressed.

  The spectacle that greeted my eyes in the mirror was not likely to incite any of the local gentlemen to anything but disgust. I was pale, my eyes ringed with dark circles, my hair a black tangle, hanging unkempt. My black gown did little enough to enliven my looks either, but when I had made my toilette, I went down to breakfast. I was hungry, despite that lingering bit of nausea. Having stayed in bed longer than usual, I missed Homer at the table. Jarvis was still there, and though he had finished eating, he stayed behind to keep me company.

  “Some boxes arrived for you,” he said. “The carter left them off half an hour ago. Perhaps it would be Norman’s books and writings? The boxes were very heavy.”

  “Very likely. I’ll have a look right after breakfast, and turn the papers over to you for pe
rusal at your convenience.”

  “There is no great rush. I am polishing up an extract for publication in the Antiquary’s Digest at the moment, a bit of work I carried on two years ago during my summer vacation. The Mendip Hills are so convenient to us here in Somerset and so interesting that I often take a trip over on a fine morning and stay for a day. You might be interested to come with me one time, if Norman’s work has fired your interest in that direction.”

  “I would enjoy it very much. Norman often spoke, and indeed wrote, of the Roman ruins in the Mendip Hills. It is where they mined lead and silver, is it not?”

  “Mostly lead. Occasionally a pig will turn up, dated and all, to tell us precisely when the work was being executed.”

  I knew a pig was not an animal in this case, but a cast block of metal, ready for shipping. “The lead was used to produce silver, I believe?”

  “Precisely. They required plenty of that for their coins. Upon rare occasions of good fortune one might even come across a skeleton with its tools beside it, as I did ten years ago.”

  “Norman also spoke of exploring the caves in the Mendip Hills. The Devil’s Punch Bowl, I recall, was the name of one of them.”

  “There are hundreds of them. The place is a honeycomb. Norman, of course, was not really interested in Roman remains at that time. It was more in the nature of a day’s outing in the fresh air for him. He carried a gun for rabbit shooting, and not a notebook or knapsack. It is good to hear he eventually developed a serious interest.”

  “Some of his notes indicate he was very much interested in what he saw. You will have a better opinion of him when you get time to read his notes.”

  Jarvis looked skeptical, but I didn’t push the matter further. He would be well impressed when he read the work.

  “I have an appointment in Millie’s laboratory this morning. I must go,” I said.

  “It is kind of you to humor her. Don’t take her stories too seriously. I hope you may talk her out of this new notion of making herself up a pair of bloomers. She’ll make us the laughingstock of the neighborhood.”